


You Too

by orphan_account



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Breathplay, Daddy Kink, Hate to Love, Light Sadism, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Sad Ending, domesticity kink, sane and consentual but not safe, spoilers to mag160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23991208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Elias had moisturised Peter’s face, choosing some obnoxious-smelling product that gleefully labelled itself as ‘for men’: imbuing him with the smell of tea tree and aloe. Elias’s hands firm again as he swiped long, massaging strokes across Peter’s cheeks, under his eyes, across his temples.Or, Elias gets fucked, and then he gets feelings and those get fucked too.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 15
Kudos: 169





	You Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [steviekat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steviekat/gifts).



> Cw: Sane and consentual but absolutely not safe, please google safe ways to asphyxiate and do not copy fanfics

“I’m tired. Carry me.”

Peter does as he’s told, grunting a little as he lifts Elias up, hands cupped under Elias’s arse, Elias not making any effort to hold himself up even as he drapes his arms over Peter’s shoulders.

“You’re tired,” Peter repeats, voice dismissive. He tries not to squirm when he feels Elias lapping at his neck, just above his starched shirt collar, the long stripe of saliva cooling quickly in the chill air of the unused flat.

It is, essentially, their fuck-place; rented by Elias, paid for by Peter, and kept for when there was an Institute event that both were ‘required’ at.

While not officially required at the event, Elias tended to make a real scene when Peter refused to show up, and it often made Peter’s life that much easier when he complied. It had not happened without a wager, of course, one that Peter had lost dismally.

While his accountant at Coutts would be intimately familiar with the name of every tailor worth knowing in Europe, it was more often than not his husband racking up the tab for expensive suit after expensive suit, each lined with its gaudy green and gold accents.

Peter’s staggering loss had him not only a mandatory feature of the Institute fundraiser but had him there in a brand new custom suit, tailored to match Elias’s. Thankfully tasteful, the black lines accented with a fog grey, subtle blue-green stitches to the cloth glinting like the morning sea seen at a distance.

Peter cared very little about his personal grooming. He was, for all intents and purposes, a large, unkempt man with a gut and a tangled beard matted by sea-salt, every bit the picturesque sailor, skin tanned by the sun and wrinkled by the sea. 

Not so today. 

Peter had been subjected to a routine Elias apparently maintained each morning. Peter was thoroughly soaked and conditioned first, body scrubbed by Elias as Peter soaked in their obscenely large bathtub; a feature he’d yet to use. Elias seemed to have some timer that warned him when Peter’s body was at its peak and Peter was pulled out, lovingly towelled dry and oiled with hands that were, for once, not ice-cold. Elias had even removed his rings, firm but delicate fingers rubbing circles over Peter’s body. 

Peter was made to sit at Elias’s vanity as his hair was preemptively slicked back with a product Elias had bought for him, more suited to his thicker, healthier hair than to Elias’s thin and product-destroyed white-boy hair. Elias had stood behind Peter, alternating between comb and hairdryer, creating perfect little coiffs that lifted his mostly-grey fringe from where it usually lay, disguising his eyes. 

Elias had moisturised Peter’s face, choosing some obnoxious-smelling product that gleefully labelled itself as ‘for men’: imbuing him with the smell of tea tree and aloe. Elias’s hands were firm again as he swiped long, massaging strokes across Peter’s cheeks, under his eyes, across his temples. 

Wordless, Peter had been manhandled so he was facing away from the mirror and towards Elias instead, who carefully moisturised Peter’s thick beard with another oil before going at it with a comb, this one apparently designed specifically for beards, repeating the brushing motion for far longer than Peter thought was necessary. Elias clipped wayward hairs when they didn’t suit whatever look he was crafting for Peter, then took the scissors to Peter’s eyebrows and sideburns with a critical eye.

Elias finished Peter’s face with a gritty, oily product applied to his lips, which when licked off tasted like sugar and sage. 

“Am I pretty yet?” Peter had asked as Elias stood back to assess his work. 

“It’ll do,” Elias had replied with his usual politician’s tone, already moving towards the dresser to strip himself from his lounge-wear and to get into his own evening suit. “Should I assume you know how to tie a tie?”

“Hm,” Peter had replied, bringing a hand to his beard and quashing the instant thoughts of appreciation he felt at the soft, almost completely transformed hair, a world away from the scratchy, dry beard he usually pulled at. “Maybe I should let you dress me every day.”

“Careful, dear,” Elias said, voice distant as he lost himself to preening over his own reflection, “You might come across as desperate.”

Elias had tied his tie for him anyway, clicking his tongue at Peter’s simple knot and pulling it out with one finger to re-tie it into something far tighter, more complicated and, after an experimental pull, much harder to remove. 

“Can’t breathe,” Peter had gruffed out, to which Elias had only smiled, satisfied at a job well done. 

The event had been as tedious as every previous iteration, though this time was made even more excruciating by the doubled attention called his way by the suit, the tailor evidently having been instructed to highlight Peter’s build and height, making him seem both taller and broader than he would have thought possible through clothing alone. Elias had complimented the look by appearing sleeker, high heels making him taller than usual but also finer, almost as much of a prick as his personality.

It had, as Elias had wanted, slowly sapped Peter of almost every modicum of energy, both physical as he was restrained by the clothing and mental as he was trapped in niceties. 

Still, though, when Elias had said he was tired, Peter had complied. Peter can feel himself becoming present in a way only Elias can make him feel. It’s like a hyper-focus, an attunement to Elias, the entire rest of the world falling away until only the other man remains: his cologne with its shot of citrus, his teeth biting at the skin of his neck, the soft thrum of his warmth in Peter’s arms.

Not even the Lonely can get him like this, he thinks, even the blasphemy feeling like it is at a distance, obscured by a fog. The only ecstasy Peter knew before this was to lose himself in the nothingness of his God, to revel in the Fear that swallowed his heart, breath knocked clean from his chest with the certainty that he was unknowable. Yet here he is, Known — and, no, it's beyond that. Beyond this rival fear — he is known. Elias knows him. Knows how to get him here, get him to this point of near-bliss, no Power necessary.

Elias has been playing his own games today, has worked Peter to this moment. The soft hands in Peter’s hair while he bathed, the light touch to Peter’s back as they talked to nothing-humans, future fodder to them both. Elias has spent the day quiet; or, as quiet as the Elias Peter knew got — still gauche and sarcastic but less biting with it. It is an Elias that has steadily relinquished control over himself, letting himself gradually melt into Peter’s side over the course of the evening until Peter knew they could leave the event without complaint. 

Peter throws Elias back, watching the man land on their bed with a jarring thud. Elias wastes no time making himself pretty, spreading himself out on the bed, arms behind his head. “Oh daddy,” Elias says, merciless and shaming, the most authoritative he’s looked all day. “Treat me gentle, big boy.”

Peter settles himself over Elias slowly, taking his time to mount the bed, knees resting either side of Elias’s body. 

He brings his left hand up to Elias’s soft, slicked hair, touch light as he runs his hand through the greying temples, mussing the ever-perfect styling, and curving around the line of Elias’s ear. He pulls experimentally on the earring and, deciding he doesn’t want it there impeding his touch he removes the golden hook with its dangling and not-so-decorational eye, the arch of it reminding him, not for the first time, that this Elias is his: caught on his line. 

Once he’s removed the eye he flicks it across the room, hearing it skitter as it bounces off of the skirting board and across their dark, wooden floor.

“That was expensive, dear,” Elias says, chastising, his human eyes shifting attention to stare forlornly at the lost earring. “And custom made. A one of a kind.”

Peter doesn’t respond, still running his hand through Elias’s hair, trailing one finger across the ridges of Elias’s ear, thumbing the lobe, gently pulling it so he can feel the lump of Elias’s piercing between his thumb and finger. 

“Are you planning to fuck me at all this evening, Peter, or am I allowing you to sit in my lap for free?”

“You talk too much.”

“Perhaps you should find a way to shut me up.”

Peter’s soft touch becomes a grip, pulling Elias’s head down, watching the roots yank, he hopes, painfully. Elias’s ever-present smug smile creases yet wider. “A bit of hair-pulling Peter? Toddlers can do better.” 

Peter’s right hand mirrors his left: a soft touch to Elias’s ear, his crooked finger tracing across Elias’s jaw, knuckle glancing across Elias’s lip. He brings his thumb down Elias’s chin, drawing a line down to Elias’s adam’s apple then back up so he can tip Elias’s chin up with his thumb. “Are you going to behave for me, Elias?”

“Absolutely not,” Elias promises, eyes positively glinting with the challenge. 

Peter lowers both hands to Elias’s neck and presses down with the full weight of his body so he’s pinning the man to the mattress. Elias’s eyes blow wide with a moment’s consideration. He attempts a breath but Peter’s large hands allow nothing through, and an experimental roll of his hips tells him he’s well and truly trapped under Peter’s weight. 

Elias begins to relax into it despite the threat — or perhaps because of it, even while his body automatically gasps for air; a fish waiting to be gutted.

“Ooh, _daddy_ ,” Elias manages again, so Peter’s grip tightens. Elias bucks up as he does, evidently enjoying the tangible threat to his life. Elias’s hands attempt purchase on Peter’s own, carefully manicured fingernails digging deep into the flesh of Peter’s fingers, carving half-crescent moons into his hands. 

Peter feels Elias’s blood thunder beneath his fingers. “My little rabbit heart,” he says, thumbs digging into Elias’s jugulars as if he is considering slitting the man’s neck with his own, far blunter, nails. 

Elias still doesn’t break eye contact, face manic and _thrilled_. “Rabbit?” Elias mouths, rutting up again, apparently not of his own volition. “I thought you only… marine..." Peter watches Elias finally run out of air, can feel the desperate pull of muscles in his neck as Elias's body tries to gasp, the man no longer able to talk. 

Elias’s eyes go half-lidded, his fingers losing strength and starting to slip from their scratching at Peter’s hands even as he ruts again, the motion accompanied by a pleased moan. 

This could very easily be it, Peter thinks, and he knows Elias is having the same wistful thought. Elias’s dick moves his body for him again, pretty lips still parted in a Cheshire grin.

Peter Lukas could kill Jonah Magnus. Here, on this bed, debauched and rutting untouched below him; frantic and euphoric and wet.

Peter’s hands squeeze tighter at the thought. He dips low and kisses Elias’s breathless body deep, taking his time to lick into Elias’s pliant mouth, feeding from the attention only Elias can give him, the taste like expensive champagne and sugared sage. 

Only when the final tightness of tension in Elias’s body releases does Peter let go. There’s only a half second of curiosity on Peter’s part — wondering whether he’s gone too far — before Elias takes a deep, gasping breath, turning his head to cough violent coughs into the bleach-white sheets. 

Peter palms Elias as the man catches his breath, watching with no little amusement as Elias alternates between his racking cough and groaning loud; voice wrecked until he comes, still fully clothed beneath Peter.

Elias’s come down is long and he pushes Peter’s face away from his own when Peter attempts to kiss him, though he doesn’t try to get out from under him, nor does he try to stop Peter when Peter turns his attention to kissing the budding bruises on Elias’s neck. 

When Elias’s breathing returns to something akin to normal, Elias reaches his hands up to Peter’s far thicker neck, wrapping his hands in a loose mirror of Peter’s previous hold. 

“That was not at all the grip one uses for sexual asphyxiation, dearest darling. You might have crushed something vital.”

“Hm,” Peter says. “I’ll try harder next time.”

The look Elias flashes him is more than sharkish. It’s the look he gets when he knows Peter will do anything for him, the next time they do this. 

Peter feels his heart lurch. 

He doesn’t wait until Elias is asleep before he allows the fog to take him back to the Tundra.

-

It would take a man far less vain than Elias to worry that his husband has not gotten off in several years. 

Elias had wondered, of course, but Peter always seemed very much willing, nay, interested in their sexual goings on, even when it was just Elias getting the release. 

Elias’s body was younger, of course, though not by much; and it wasn’t like Peter never engaged in their activities, so Elias had let it happen, curiosity not greater than his desire to have what would likely be a conversation he didn’t want to have. 

At the end of the day Elias got his dick taken care of, Peter got whatever he needed to get out of his system, and more often than not (especially more recently,) Elias got to rub his cold hands all over Peter’s furnace-like body while Peter kissed whatever marks he’d left. 

Elias lets one hand play with Peter’s hair, curling locks around his finger while he languishes in the sweet burn of muscles he only got after a good fucking.

“You’re the only person I’ve ever felt like this about,” Elias says, brain not really catching up to his mouth. He feels stretched and relaxed, and apparently poetic. Perhaps he should take letter-writing up again. 

Peter moans, and Elias nearly laughs at how it’s become nearly impossible to distinguish between his husband’s incredulous groans and his pleasure. 

“Can’t accept some niceties from your dearest husband?” Elias asks, turning his head to Peter in order to level him a malicious smile— 

Peter has his hands pressed to his face, but Elias’s smile drips off him, watching what he can see of Peter’s face.

Peter is blushing. 

Elias feels… uncomfortable. More than that, he feels uncertain. His gaze flicks down, can see that Peter is hard. Elias raises himself up so he’s on one elbow. “Peter,” Elias says, keeping his voice neutral. “Is this what one finds hot these days? Domestic monogamy?”

“Fuck off,” Peter says, voice muffled behind his hand.

Elias reaches out with his other hand, trailing a finger down Peter’s cock. Nothing. 

“I love you,” Elias says. Peter’s reaction is immediate, the moan undeniably one of pleasure, not his typical exasperation. 

Elias feels himself go hot, retracting his hand from Peter, feeling almost— bashful. The blush is contagious, spreading through him like a disease. “Huh,” he says, feeling, for perhaps the first time in his life, speechless. “Oh,” he says, a moment later, rolling back so that he’s staring at the ceiling. 

“I love you too,” Peter says in the darkness. It’s a statement, lost and distant, but sure. 

Elias knew, of course, that they loved one another. Had said it enough times over the decades, had screamed it at one another through divorces and through sex, had said it sweetly and with malice. 

But here… 

This ‘you too’ was not a peace offering after a third divorce. It was not an attempt to get Elias into bed after a messy fifth. It was not the declaration of ‘I love you, you spiteful bastard’, or ‘One day I will kill you, and I will feel only pleasure while I do.’

Here, Elias feels sickened, stomach turning with a single thought. He loves Peter as Peter loved Elias, and they are both hit with the knowledge that they could. Could choose this. Could disappear tomorrow, leave their failing plans and their legacies of Fear for the new and the wrathful. 

Could choose each other. 

Elias turns to Peter. Peter turns to Elias. 

Elias only needs one, steadying breath to make up his mind. Peter watches it, and comes to the same conclusion. Let it never be said that they are not stubborn bastards, through and through.

Peter’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes… Elias finds, to his great horror, that he can see a sea in those eyes; deep and roiling and… tinged with salt aired sadness. 

Elias lets out his breath in a hearty sigh, then clambers over to straddle Peter. 

“Whatever would you do if one of your archive rats found out that you, the great Elias Buchard, had genuine feelings?”

“Isn’t that where the romance lies, darling? The mutually assured destruction?” Elias says as he rubs a thumb over Peter’s lips, trying to re-establish some of his previous smugness. 

His heart sinks when Peter does exactly what Elias hopes and kisses his thumb. Not with indecent lust, or because it is there, but with reverence. With care. 

“I will go to bed safe in the knowledge that only one person on this earth truly knows me,” Peter says, quietly, more words strung together than Elias has heard the man say in a while. “And safe knowing I can end you just as quickly as you could end me.” 

Elias can’t help it. He releases the tension building in his shoulders in a shaky laugh, this unprecedented emotion rocking him to his core. He dips down to kiss Peter, ghosting nearly-there touches of his lips on Peter’s skin, almost fearful that if he touches Peter, the man will disappear from under him. 

Peter makes a frustrated noise and locks his hands around the back of Elias’s neck, pulling him down against him and keeping him there. “I hate you,” Peter says against Elias’s lips, filling Elias’s heart with that reassuring familiarity. It feels warm and safe, here as his hand rucks up Peter’s shirt, clawing at his skin. 

They won’t talk about it again after this and they both know it. They’ve made the choice, and they both feel it, keenly. 

It doesn’t stop Peter fucking Elias til he’s within an inch of his life every other Tuesday, but sometimes… 

Sometimes Elias wonders what it would be like if he had chosen differently. 

**Author's Note:**

> (this was baby's first E fanfic, hhahhh please f to pay respects in the comments - or i'm @bazemayonnaise on tumblr)


End file.
